The motion of the ocean

[Content warning for this post: cancer, bereavement, hospitals. But also swimming, podcasts and dancing.]

Hello! It’s been a while since I posted a swim update. I was reminded of this Substack last week when someone mentioned that they’d googled the distance to Point Jerningham lighthouse (or as we local swimmers call it, ‘The Lighthouse’) and up popped one of my old posts about my first swim around the lighthouse, how nervous I’d been, and how good it felt afterwards. The person who read it was quite effusive – they hadn’t known I was a writer – and that positive exchange has spurred me to return here today and start typing.

How’s your 2025 been so far? I was going to declare that mine had been utterly **** but that’s not entirely true. I have my health, although my reflection is looking a bit gaunt at the moment. I’ve had some beautiful swims and the weather here in Wellington is much improved after the surprise second winter we experienced over Christmas/New Year (I mean, really, we’re in the southern hemisphere! A bit of snow would’ve been pretty and festive but this was gale southerlies and driving rain for weeks on end).

The utterly **** part started in mid-December. My lovely father-in-law Chris, whom I’ve known since I was 16 (that’s over 30 years now) and who has been like a second dad to me, had visited the GP with a lingering dry cough.

Tests revealed suspected lymphoma and he was referred for scans. The scans came back as Stage 4 melanoma. Plans were put in place for treatment to start immediately after the holiday period.

Then several family members caught covid (including me, and also Chris) so the planned family Christmas lunch was cancelled. I know this has happened to many other families in the 2020s.

But then Chris had a heart attack on Boxing Day and was rushed to hospital.

Things were touch and go, but he rallied. He lasted a few more weeks, seemed to be improving, started cancer treatment, but went downhill rapidly and suddenly it was the end. He passed away in hospital on January 30, with his family by his side.

On the same day, my own father had a nasty fall outside his house and broke his hip and elbow. He’s had many falls in the past year and was already using a walking frame, but this was the worst one. He, too, was rushed to hospital.

For days and weeks I was trying to be available for my husband, his family, my dad, and the kids, and never quite being ‘there’ enough. Not to mention work and other commitments and having a few quiet moments to grieve myself. The past couple of months have been a blur of visits to (and the accompanying sensory overload of) ICU, ED, the cancer ward, ‘elderly’ wards, rehabilitation centres, kind and stoic nurses and social workers, ‘elder care’ websites and pamphlets, doctors’ rounds, phone calls, lots and lots of driving, tears, flowers, tributes, finger food, cards, hugs.

Then a three-day swim retreat approached that I’d booked almost a year ago. I wasn’t going to go. I felt too drained, too emotional, too busy. My husband suggested that I go anyway. The funeral was over. My dad was settled in hospital and could spare me for a couple of days. The kids were back at school. I’d already paid for it. So I went.

The retreat was classed as ‘mid-distance’, swimming 2-3km swims per day. Normally that would be pretty standard for me, but for the first swim we climbed onto a rocking boat and I felt a bit queasy; I think I also got a bit of water in my ears when jumping off the boat into the sea. I felt ill, like I might throw up. Trying to keep up with the group (we were well supported so I was never alone, but I was lagging behind), I started shaking. Then I started to cry into my goggles, hoping that no one would see. It’s a shame that I felt so rotten because the water was a beautiful azure colour and so clear, with swaying seaweed and little darting fish.

I thought about Chris, who was always so supportive of my swimming. Every week he would ask me how my swimming was going, often wincing in sympathy when I shared that day’s water temperature. Sometimes on a hot summer’s day we would dip together at Scorching Bay and I have such strong memories of him wading into the bright blue water, gasping and dunking his head under, then reflecting (in the manner of most Welly swimmers) that once you got used to it, the temperature wasn’t “too bad”.

People would report back to me how proud Chris was of my swimming. In fact, he was encouraging of all my new ventures. He never judged or questioned the whys or hows, or expressed doubt or worry or negativity. Just interest and gentle encouragement, telling me even from his bed in ICU that I was doing a “good job”. He had a big heart and a fun spirit and loved his family and wine and ice cream.

I really miss him.

*

Once that first retreat swim was over, we climbed back onto terra firma. I felt wrung out but at least the nausea had passed. Delicious, nutritious food (the weekend was catered), a beautiful location, and some yoga for swimmers and meditation were included. Relaxation, fun and breathing were all good for the soul after weeks of feeling pummelled by the big waves of life.

And it was such a lovely group of people. Ocean swimmers, I find, are generally good sorts. They’re curious and insightful and supportive, with a certain calmness from all the vitamin sea. There was a lot of chatting and sharing of information, hugs and laughs. The other swims we did were full of variety: a bit of chop, currents, and river drift where we could glide along in streamline and feel like a million bucks. I practised some long exhales to calm myself into the swims (there’s always a jittery, buzzy feel before a big swim as everyone faffs about with wetsuits and goggles and caps and sunblock and chafing balm and getting in on time). After the final swim I peeled off my wetsuit (which I always wear for longer swims, especially in new locations) and floated happily on my back in the teal water, feeling that freshness on my skin, just being.

That night, dancing was on the retreat’s itinerary. I was quietly planning on skipping that part and exiting early, rather than executing side-step in front of near-strangers. My last public dancing experience was probably at the school disco with my then-six-year-old, waving glow sticks to wholesome pop beats. In my younger days, well, some kind of artificial stimulant would’ve been involved, and dancing well past midnight in crowded clubs. So to dance, completely sober, at 7:30pm in a local hall with a dozen other people? Gosh, no!

But then the music came on. And we were told to dance like no one was watching. And our host and her crew started moving like mad things, women in their 50s and 60s who could do the twist and shake it off and were limber in a way that made you want to have what they were having, sign up for every yoga class. Soon we were all laughing and dancing with abandon, to funk and disco and pop, burning calories by the dozen and discovering untapped energy reserves despite several long days of swimming in the sea. My tension and sadness melted away, at least for a while, and it felt so good to move my stiff swimmer’s body. For a few blissful minutes, I simply let go.

While things are not exactly all better, I feel more able to carry them now. Life can be hard and sad and frustrating, even brutal sometimes, but it’s also rich and vast, full of people, gratitude, surprises, fun, and pulsing seaweed heartbeats. Ocean breaths.

*

A fun project during this tricky time has been starting a new podcast called Swim Chats. I love podcasts; I listen to them while doing chores, walking the dogs, cooking, etc. While I’d love to tell you I listen to highbrow podcasts on worthy topics, it’s mostly TV and movie discussions. I love them! But I do enjoy a couple of swimming ones: Effortless Swimming, an Aussie business with great advice and slick online marketing (almost every swimmer I know has signed up for their online 5 Day Catch Challenge), Swimming the Strait, by a former Welly swimmer who interviews marathon swimmers, and Marathon Swim Stories in the US.

The reason I wanted to create my own swim podcast is because I couldn’t find one that interviews ‘ordinary’ people like me who got into swimming a bit later in life and who isn’t a marathon or competitive swimmer, but has learned a lot and had some interesting experiences. Every Sunday over coffee I hear all these inspiring, relatable stories and the journalist in me wanted to record them.

So I’ve made a start and this week launched Swim Chats with Shona! So far there’s the podcast trailer and my first swim chat, with artist/writer/costume maker/all-round good sort Fifi Colston. Fifi is always a joy to chat to and balances getting in the sea with all of her children’s book/workshop/World of Wearable Art deadlines. I have a few other guests lined up too which is exciting. My audio mixing skills are a work in progress but it’s fun to learn new things, and I was given a microphone for my birthday so it’s all very professional.

*

And finally, on Sunday morning it was cloudy and calm. I headed to Oriental Bay and swam 2km around the swimmer’s turning buoy (which is close to the lighthouse). Just cruising, gliding along, working on my technique. The water was a bit cooler than the previous day, which had been sunny with salps galore (the little jellybean-like zooplankton that arrive in hot weather). For once I’d remembered to pack my GoPro in the tow float and stopped for a selfie in front of Carter Fountain (one of the world’s rare salt-water fountains; I must take a pic on a sunny day because its spray creates rainbows that you can swim through!).

So glam in my tinted plastic goggles, lol. Thanks for reading!